by Eros, Marata
THE TOKEN
Volume Three
by Marata Eros
The Token
Volume Three
Copyright © 2014 Marata Eros
Kindle Edition
MARATA EROS Newsletter
http://marataeroseroticaauthor.blogspot.com/
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication:
Dii; who always reminds me that I'm not just a writer ....
“Love sears the heart immortal
The embers burnt down to the token which remains ....”
“... Driving towards the daylight,
running from the midnight,
trying to get my way home.
Running from the spotlight,
trying to find the daylight,
trying to get back home....”
JOE BONAMASSA- guitarist and singer
~ 1 ~
Light. Searing and complete.
My eyes remain shut, but I feel a deep burning behind my heavy eyelids.
A sharp click like a pen closing. Then, “When did this happen?”
I think I know that voice.
“I don't know, a couple of hours ago.” A pause. “We were talking and then”—I hear the shrug in his voice—“she just folded like a deck of cards.”
I know that voice.
Thorn.
My eyes open slowly. The bright light is gone, and Doctor Clive Matthews’s compassionate gaze comes into focus.
“Hi there, Miss Mitchell.”
I say nothing. Thorn is here.
Where is here?
I look around, my neck stiff and see that I'm in another hospital room.
Great.
“Your boyfriend said you fainted.”
Oh, my God. My head swivels to Thorn, and he grins back. His hands are jammed in his designer denims, his sleeve tats in full relief.
“Ah...” I croak.
The good doctor gets a cup of water and bends the straw to my mouth.
I sip, leveling a death stare at Thorn.
I finish and open my mouth to deny Thorn's claim of any attachment to me.
Before I can speak, Thorn says, “Doctor Matthews said that you shouldn’t be working so hard in your condition.”
My head turns to Matthews, and I narrow my eyes to slits of condemnation. Had he told Thorn?
His brows rise. “I thought we talked about management, Miss Mitchell.” His brows fall as his head cocks to the side. “You agreed you would minimize your activity as part of that plan.”
Thorn looks on with keen interest, his eyes ping ponging from Matthews to me.
I have to take this in hand, but I'm not sure how.
I mentally recap. Matthews believes Thorn is my boyfriend. I don't know if Thorn knows I'm terminally ill, but he knows something is up. Mick doesn't know about the lap venues, but Thorn holds that over my head.
It's a circle of madness and deception I can't decipher.
I close my eyes against the chaos that my life has become.
Just then, my cell sounds a text chime, and all eyes move to my purse.
“Want me to get that, babe?” Thorn asks, his tone light and his eyes dark.
“No,” I answer through gritted teeth, “let it go to voice mail.”
Doctor Matthews pats my knee through the hospital gown. “I'd like to keep you here for twenty-four hours.” He sees my face and chuckles.
“But I know you won't stay for that.”
I nod.
Damn straight I'm not going to stay here.
“You're free to go, but remember what we agreed on.”
Matthews looks at me before his eyes slide to Thorn.
I nod quickly, hoping that Thorn doesn't know everything.
He already knows too much.
*
“Get out of my room,” I tell Thorn the instant Matthews leaves as I hike the blankets to my chin.
“No,” he says.
I scowl, and he waits.
An exhale rushes out of me.
“I don't owe you an explanation.”
His chin kicks back, and a large hand scrubs his short hair. “Uh, yeah, ya do.” His dark eyes peg me to the bed.
I stubbornly say nothing.
“Listen, Faren, I've got a good thing going with these lap gigs. McKenna runs his uppity-whitey shit—”
“Whitey shit?” I ask, my fingers coming up in airquotes.
He gives a stiff nod. “Yeah. McKenna and I go way back, same hood.”
My brows meet above my eyes. I didn’t expect that revelation.
Mick had told me he was self-made. His intellect isn’t in doubt. But that edge that he wears—his dark, gritty side?
Here's the proof. Thorn isn't an accident as an employee. There's a real man hidden inside the suave shell of the billionaire that everyone else sees.
“So you're a charity hire?” I confront.
Thorn steps forward, his expression flashing from neutral to angry. “You don't know jack shit, girl.”
We stare at each other.
“I know you're skimming money with the revolving lap venue,” I say. “That McKenna remains unaware.”
Thorn scowls, rubbing his face then putting his large hands on his hips. I watch his tats undulate with the movement and swallow.
I can't deny Thorn scares me on a primitive level.
Or maybe any level.
“And I know that you like boss man,” he says.
I shake my head, but my expression gives me away.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding and palming his chin. “You dig my man Mick.”
“How did you know I was... seeing him?”
Am I seeing him?
Oh yes.
“I know it's real because my bro doesn't dish on the cracks unless he's serious.”
“Cracks?” I ask miserably.
Thorn nods.
“Y'know, chicks?”
Oh my god.
His vulgarity knows no bounds.
“Please leave so I can dress,” I ask as politely as possible.
“Yeah, fine.” Thorn nails me with a hard stare and pops his thumb into his chest. “Then we're gonna chat, you and me.”
I nod. Anything to get rid of him.
I wait until the door clicks behind him, then I swing my legs around and wait for the dizziness. When none comes, I let the breath I've been holding leave me.
The floor leeches the heat from my feet as I walk to the bathroom and lock myself inside.
Some wonderful nurse has hung my things on the back hook, and I smile, tearing off the offending hospital gown.
I look in the mirror and see a pale, pinched face. I stuff myself back into my clothes, slide my feet into my shoes, and walk back into the room.
“What took all that time?” Thorn asks, lounging against the door jamb.
“Let's go,” I say.
He moves to take my elbow, and I wrench it away from him. “Don't touch me.”
Thorn wags a finger. �
�It'll look suspicious if I don't act like the concerned boyfriend.” He leans in, his grip on my elbow a painful circle. “Besides, we've done a lot more than this.”
Shame engulfs me. A flush of anger mixed with embarrassment slides up my face, and he chuckles.
“Good girl.”
Or bad, from my perspective.
His brand new, fire-engine red Porsche 911 turbo Carerra hugs the curb like a screaming jewel. The color yells nouveau riche to all who stroll by.
Mick probably has ten of these tucked away somewhere, though I've only seen him ride the Harley. I swallow hard at that memory.
“Hey?” Thorn says, and I realize I've allowed him to drag me to his car. “Get in.”
Right. So we can chat.
Accepting help from Thorn isn't smart. He's probably keeping a mental score card of favors, and mine is adding up. I don't need any more debt.
But I have to get home.
I sigh and dig at the handle from the top and clamp my good hand inside it like a claw, jerking it open. The heavy door swings across the curb, inching over the sidewalk with a whisper of space between the shiny red metal and the cement.
I breathe through the look Thorn gives me when he sees the door hovering a fraction of an inch above the sidewalk.
“Good thing you didn't damage the goods.” His eyes bore into mine. “I'd have to reconsider taking it out of your hide.”
Wonderful. The prick.
I lower myself into his car. It's like lying down in a bed, it's so low to the ground. I scoop my hand into the handle and shut the door as Thorn smoothly pulls away.
We travel silently for a few minutes, and I watch his hands shift and maneuver in traffic.
I wonder what Thorn could have been if he wasn't a rich thug.
He's somehow a boyhood friend of Mick’s. That fills me with unease because I can't reconcile the two.
His hands clench the wheel, and I know I can't get out of our chat.
“So… what made you face plant? Believe me, if you're some sickie, I can't have you passing out all over the laps.”
Thanks for the compassion, asshole.
The laps.
It always comes full circle to that.
His eyes land on me for a beat then slide away. “I have a business, Faren. I know you think I'm a cold prick.”
I laugh—I can't help it. He's so right.
He frowns, tightening his grip on the steering wheel, taking me down familiar streets.
There's no way I'm telling him. “A business that's behind Mick's back,” I say instead.
He pulls over at a curb. The meter clicks to a glaring red expired as I look. The engine rumbles, causing our bodies to tremble.
“And the first girl I've ever heard Mick talk about is a cum-sponge for old pervs.” His eyebrows cock, and my face flames.
My hands twist in my lap, and I don't reply.
“Not so high and mighty now, are we?” Thorn asks softly.
I don't move when he snatches my left hand off my lap.
I can't. He's that strong, that fast.
He flips my palm over, and my fingers helplessly clutch against his hand.
Thorn's eyes meet mine. “What the fuck is this?”
I shake my head and hope he'll let it drop. I know he won't.
“I... I had an accident... about four years ago.”
“Bullshit.” His black eyes blaze into mine, his hand tightens, and a little whimper breaks the seal of my lips.
“Please.” I breathe through the pain.
His eyes flash to mine before he drops my hand.
It twitches between us. I won't be able to use it for a few minutes.
My eyes meet his.
“I know accidents,” Thorn says slowly. “This isn't no accident.”
I swallow, clearing my throat. “How do you know?” My voice is quiet inside the purring car, my body tense.
Our gazes lock.
“Because.” His hand gently lifts my palm as it spasms between us and runs a finger over the scar at the center. “I know knives.”
Of course he does.
~ 2 ~
I can feel myself begin to thaw toward Thorn as we sit there beside the curb in his purring Porsche.
The silence seems to bind us together as we commune over our differences- our sameness.
He hasn't coerced a confession out of me yet.
The man who forces lap dances on all the new girls and asks no questions. I am so sure I know exactly who he is, what motivates him, only to realize that I'm not the only one who is guarding secrets.
I startle when a street cop comes up to my window and give the glass a sharp tap with his knuckle.
A blue uniform and irritated eyes blare into mine.
Thorn raises his middle finger and pulls away.
I turn. My hand presses against the window as I watch the meter cop take down Thorn's plate number.
“That wasn't smart!” I laugh, whipping around and sinking back against the seat.
He laughs too. “No, it was stupid, but if felt fucking great.”
I nod. I understand great.
I mean, I did.
“Listen, sweet cheeks,” Thorn begins.
I glare at him again, and he chuckles.
“You're so easy to get worked up.”
I think of Mick's hands on my body and I can't deny Thorn's claim. But not for what he thinks.
“Truce?” Thorn asks, his face in profile.
“What does that mean?” I ask. I’m hoping for an alliance, even an uneasy one he seems to offer.
“It means you don't tell Mick I'm doing the merry-go-laps, and I don't tell him you're riding the ponies.”
I get a visual of a carousel filled with wooden horses that have the faces of men I've danced on. I hear the dry click as I swallow.
Another lie.
Another secret.
I concede. “Okay.”
“You can always go back to the poles,” Thorn suggests. His shadowed face turns to mine. “Just be one of Ty's pole girls.”
I stare at him, and he smirks as his eyes travel to the street again.
I say nothing.
“That's what I thought. You need the cash.”
I move my left hand under my right. A nervous habit.
“Why?” Thorn asks, inching closer to First Street.
“Do you have to know?”
I don't want him knowing about my mom.
He laughs. “No.” His face swings to mine as he pulls into my narrow alley and the cobblestones make us bounce as he slows.
“Remember when I told you how you walk?”
I nod, my eyes dropping. How could I forget?
“You said that I was... a... whore.” My voice drops on that last word. I don't deny it. I'm splitting hairs at this point.
“I've gotta be tough, Faren. There's no way to survive this biz without my shit in one sock.”
I wait.
He sighs, raking his hand over his skull cap of black hair. “I said you walk like a whore. I didn't say you were a whore.”
We stare at each other.
I offer my hand, and he takes it. One light pump, and it's done.
“I'm a fucked up dude,” he says. “Just so long as you know it. I'm not soft on the bitches—I can't afford to be. But I don't let any violence or hooking shit go down on my watch.”
My eyes search his. “What about the extras?”
“That's up to the girls.”
He shrugs.
Thorn leans forward, and I press back against the door. “I'm not gonna hurt you.”
Right. A truce is one thing, trust is another. Mine doesn't come easily; Ronnie trained me well.
“No girl is getting the beef stick during laps. If she wants to spread the peanut butter on her time... I'm not policing that.”
I blink, processing his words. “Speaking of...” The raid plays out in every corner of my skull, and I wince from the memory. “those cops...”
Yeah, it was.
“I don't like lying to Mick,” I say. The first absolute truth I've spoken since this whole mess began.
Thorn exhales in a rush. “Me either.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Why do you?” he counters.
I can't. I just can't.
Thorn's eyes move to the rearview mirror and widen.
“Fuck me.”
His tone of voice puts me on high alert. “What?” My hand flies to my chest as I turn to see what he does.
Thorn revs the engine. “Get your head down!”
I press my head between my legs as he guns it, shooting out of the alley. I pop my head up as he accelerates headlong into a hole in traffic that's hardly more than a gap.
His wheels screech as he depresses the gas, shifting hard into second and ripping the wheel to the left as he zooms into the two lane opposing traffic load.
I hit the door hard. “Holy shit!” I scream, ducking my head again.
“Yeah!” Thorn hoots, punching the roof. “That rocked balls!”
He decelerates, and I ask meekly, “Can I sit up?”
“Oh yeah, go ahead.”
I lift my head up and wilt against the seat. A leaky sound escapes, and I notice it's my breath. “God, what the hell was that about?”
“Not what—who.”
I look at him as he circles back toward my street. We crawl along in stop-and-go traffic in front of Pike Place Market.
“Mick.”
“No,” I reply in a wheeze.
“Yeah.”
*
Detour
Thorn drives past my turn off, and I say, “Hey, where are we going?”
“You want to explain to Mick what you're doing with me?”
Not really.
He watches my face. “I didn't think so.”
I look at his strong hands, the tat sleeves bleeding up his arms and ask, “So what's the plan?”
“I'll drop you off somewhere else.”
“Where?”
He pulls up at a building and parks.
